His Way
by Sandy S
Summary: Pre-Sunnydale Spike goes out on the town without Dru, raring for a fight! Just a pure bit of violence for ya and pre-soul Spike!


Title: His Way(1/1)  
  
Author: Sandy S.  
  
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss. I own nothing, but Joss said we could write fanfics! *g*  
  
Rating: R for blood and violence.  
  
Summary: A few years after being turned, Spike is still discovering his power as a vamp. Spike POV.  
A/N: This is for Rhonda who wanted a pre-Sunnydale Spike ficlet with blood, fists, and fangs. Hope this satisfies your bloodlust, dearest! ;o)   
  
* * *  
  
Even though Drusilla is asleep in my arms, my senses are humming. They rarely hummed when I was human. Trying not to wake the unconscious goddess in my arms, I shift a bit under the sheets as I force my eyes closed.   
  
The feeling doesn't go away.   
  
In fact, it increases tenfold in the surrounding darkness.  
  
I don't quite know how to describe the feeling, but I can compare it to an event from my human life. . . an event that occurred when I was just five-years-old.   
  
I had been riding my first horse. Father was so proud. And I assured him that I would be fine if he let go of the reins. The horse was dapple, gray, and tall; my short legs barely reached the edges of the saddle. I remember how firm the muscles of its neck were beneath my palms as it broke into a light trot.   
  
Everything was fine until someone in a nearby field fired some sort of gun, doing who knows what. Before I could do anything, my steed took off faster than I ever thought possible. I could hear my father screaming behind me, and I was helpless to do anything but hold on tight. When the horse stopped, I didn't have a firm grasp on its mane or the reins, and I flew through the air like a cannonball.   
  
The humming feeling is what I felt in that moment when I was suspended in mid-air and everything inside me was screaming that I was in trouble.  
  
I had been terrified. . .   
  
But now, the feeling thrills me, and I can't get enough of it. It's like an insatiable beast growing inside my chest, threatening to burst my ribcage unless I expend the energy. . . unless I destroy something.  
  
Dru gets excited and claps her hands whenever I mention this feeling to her. She tells me that the feeling is my demon dancing inside of me until I release it. Then, she marvels that she created me. My enthusiasm annoys Darla and Angelus, but then again, they're old and less carefree.   
  
In other words, they're no fun.  
  
Right now, I feel like I could slaughter half the town. . . but only if they fight me back.   
  
I've only been part of the hunt for a few months. But I know that I don't much care for the games Angelus plays. His style is too indirect, unfair to his victims. . . not that having supernatural strength and fangs in a fight is very fair either.  
  
I'm not sure I have a style, and I've never been out alone.   
  
I've hunted most often with Dru. When she's not by my side, she's been lurking in the shadows, watching me with wide, bright eyes as if she wants to swallow me whole into their fathomless depths. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her hovering there with her long, slender fingers covering her lips like a little girl giggling over a friend's secret. I like that. Despite, or maybe because of, her insanity, she wants me. . . she needs me.  
  
And I like feeling needed. My mother needed me when she was alive. I'm used to taking care of others. I find comfort in it. It's been one of the only constants across my life and unlife.  
  
Dru moans a little in her dreams and licks her lips at something the hidden images are showing her. The buzzing in my body increases as she lets out the growl of pleasure that I've come to recognize as accompanying her kills.  
  
She rolls over then, away from me, and I use that as an opportunity to throw aside the covers and rise. Without thinking, I hurriedly pull on what Dru calls my tavern clothes and tiptoe down the hallway of our bungalow to the front door. Angelus and Darla are gone for the evening, so I only have to worry about waking Dru.   
  
She needs the rest after seven men attacked her en masse a few evenings ago, hitting at her with shovels and slashing at her with knives until I came to her rescue. (At times, she gets distracted by the murmurings in her head and doesn't know when to leave a fight.) When I pulled her out from under the bodies, she was more concerned about her new dress being destroyed than the deep, gaping wounds in her ivory flesh.   
  
I make it out the door and into the streets without disturbing her, and my demeanor changes. Inhaling the crisp autumn breeze, I let my arms swing loose and free as I step jauntily over the cobblestones toward the buzz of downtown life.   
  
From the stories I was told as a boy, I thought vampires and other such monsters stayed in the dark shadows of forests or caves; I never dreamed vampires walked among the living so freely. Our bungalow is a mere ten-minute walk to the pubs.   
  
As people of all stations begin to flow around me like living wine bottles waiting to be popped open and feasted upon, I grin and brush the stray curls out of my face.   
  
I spot a young, slim barmaid peeking out the window as she clears a nearby table. She returns my nod with a shy smile. She's not what I'm looking for tonight. And her pub is nearly empty.   
  
No use bothering her. She's a lone sparrow amongst dozens that I could kill tonight. Too easy.  
  
I study the cluster of young aristocrats hailing cabs after an evening at the theater. I have no use for them. I already got my revenge on the handful from my hometown who had tormented me.   
  
Boring to repeat myself. Maybe some other evening if I can get my hand on some railroad spikes. I know Dru would want to watch that. She likes cleaning up after me and arranging the bodies.  
  
I pass up the house of ill repute. Shouldn't even bother taking that one. Dru would have my head.  
  
Next comes a string of taverns frequented by lower class individuals. Subconsciously, I knew they would be my targets tonight. I enter the one farthest away from the main crowds and scan the patrons with care, getting a mental layout of the small space.   
  
A fire glows on the far side of the room, sending little flickers of orange and yellow licking over the walls, tables, and warm bodies. The wooden tables are arranged close together and will be perfect for staking me, but that just adds to the thrill. The smell of fresh blood underscores the heady aroma of alcohol and tobacco. It's a delicious combination.  
  
Fourteen men, the pub owner, and two servant girls are buzzing about. One of the girls, a blonde with well-developed curves, catches me licking my lips, and I wink at her so that she blushes and turns away.  
  
Studying the men in the room, I choose the youngest of the bunch. . . the one who looks the most arrogant and sure of himself. . . the one who just grew in his first hint of a beard and is probably raring for a good fight.  
  
Sidling up to him, I eye his stained clothing and inhale his human scent. He's ripe for the picking. I sit down at his table as if I own it, sliding close to him so that he feels uncomfortable with my presence. Then, I prop my feet up on the bench across from us, which is occupied by his companion, a burly, older man who raises his eyebrows at me.   
  
"Hey!" the youth protests, scooting away from my intrusion and sloshing his spirits on the wooden tabletop. "What do you think you're doing?" His dialect is coarse and hard and grates on my nerves.   
  
I imitate his lower class accent, "Taking *my* seat."  
  
He glares at me. "Your seat? What the hell do you mean, your seat?"  
  
"Well," I explain with utter calm contrasting against his strident demeanor, "I was hungry and needed a spot of action, so I left the house to have a nice meal."   
  
"Oh, really. You can just find yourself another table then because this one's already occupied."   
  
"Yes, by me," I return. I turn my head, searching for the blonde barmaid. I wave a hand to get her attention. "Bring me whatever he's having."  
  
She nods and hurries off with a rustle of skirts to fill my order.   
  
I scoot my feet back with as much noise as possible and let them thump to the ground. Resting my forearms on the table, I clasp my fingers loosely together. "So," I address his companion, "what are you doing here on this fine night?"   
  
I sound annoyingly like Angelus. This talking part better be over with soon, or I'm going to die of boredom. My muscles are about to burst with the need to hit something.  
  
The older man opens his mouth to answer me when out of the corner of my eye, I spy a fist flying at my face.  
  
Finally! I was wondering what was taking the young one so long  
  
I catch the youth's fist with my left palm, squeezing and twisting as I rise. Now the fun can begin.   
  
The young man's face contorts in a momentary mask of pain, and I give him a broad smile. He lashes out at me with his legs, but they are caught between the bench and the table, immobilizing him.   
  
His arm breaks, and with my enhanced hearing, I hear the rip of tendons and muscles. He lets out an unmanly shriek, and his older friend flies up from the table with a shout, attacking me from behind and trying to pull me off of the young man.   
  
The man behind me digs his fingers into my neck, sending shoots of pain to my brain. With a roar, my demon emerges, bringing out the familiar shift of the bones in my skull. Ridges emerge out of my forehead, and my canines lengthen and press into the flesh of my lower lip and jaw.   
  
I think the youth might faint, and his skin pales as I flash my golden eyes and the points of my teeth at him.   
  
All the better to eat you with, my dear.   
  
Wild panic overtakes the older man's expression as I sling him off my back to the ground. The other patrons of the tiny establishment are starting to swirl around us, brandishing benches and anything they can get their drunken hands on.   
  
And they're not just aiming at me. In fact, most of them aren't. They're hitting and kicking each other. The barmaids have hidden in the back room, and the pub owner is making useless attempts to pull people apart.  
  
That's the best thing about a good old fashioned bar brawl in the early evening. They're all a bit inebriated but not enough to make them too easy to kill.  
  
With the sounds of crashes, grunts, and moans in the background, I snap the kid's neck with his companion helplessly pinned beneath my foot. Without hesitation, I bend to rip out the young man's throat with my teeth and take a good long drink of the coppery fluid. His energy burgeons over my tongue and warms the back of my throat. I shiver in ecstasy as his life drains away.   
  
The man beneath my foot is squirming to get away as I drop one lifeless body. I don't want to bother with him, so I kick his ribs once or twice until they cave in and puncture his lungs. He won't be bothering me now.   
  
Then, I step on his rounded stomach and launch myself into the middle of the next fray.   
  
I find myself fighting three burly men.  
  
I laugh as I parry one blow with a plate from the table, duck another fist, and splash alcohol into a third man's face. I lash out, tripping the first man with a sweep of my foot and landing a punch against the second's cheekbone, which lets out a satisfying crunch. The third is still blotting at his burning eyes, so I bend to take a sample of his blood, biting hard into his jugular.   
  
Someone takes a crack at my knees with a chunk of wood, and I stagger forward, running my tongue over my blood-covered teeth. I respond to the attack with fury, tearing the man's throat out so that his life force gushes over my fist. I don't bother lapping up any of his blood and throw his ripped flesh to the ground in disgust.  
  
I survey my surroundings a second time. How different they are now than a few minutes ago. The energy in the room is crackling, and I think how wonderful it is to be undead and feeding.  
  
Across the room, a drunken man can't handle the weight of his weapon, and a bench smashes into the fireplace, starting a blaze that rapidly spreads in a wave over the alcohol-sodden tables and benches throughout the bar.   
  
A handful of patrons and the pub owner flee the tavern, dragging the two barmaids behind them.   
  
I don't mind. There're plenty of lovely flesh-filled sacks of blood and bones left for me.  
  
Within minutes, the remaining men start gasping in the smoke and soot that fills the air, and I glory in their new weakness, cutting a path through them and sating my thirst for violence and blood.   
  
When at last there are no more bodies for me to sup from, I stagger out of the crumbling building, covered in dirt and blood. I'm just in time to witness a small crowd gathering from down the street. My demon quiets enough that I put away its mask before I get close enough for them to see me clearly.  
  
A few of the men cast me odd looks, and I try to appear serious. . . as if I've just witnessed something horrific.   
  
But once I'm past them, my cocky attitude returns, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand to clear away the remaining blood.   
  
That was. . . fun!  
  
Once I reach the quieter streets on the path to the bungalow I share with the other vampires, I realize that I'm feeling tired. With a sudden pang, I long for Drusilla's embrace. Blood and alcohol make me sleepy.  
  
And my reflective side re-emerges.  
  
Have I discovered my style of killing? The brawl certainly satisfied me more than the others' styles of late. I've tried Dru's helpless as a kitten routine, Darla's seductive act, and Angelus's twisted mind games. None of those have been nearly as exciting or fulfilling to me as what I did tonight.   
  
Maybe killing is like making love; we all have different styles and needs. And sometimes we have to do it a certain way to please our partners or fellow hunters, but sometimes we have to pleasure ourselves.  
  
Tonight, I liked lowering myself to walk among the lesser class. . . feeding off them and fighting them. In life, I've always liked people and always wanted them to notice me, but they never have.   
  
Maybe tonight was so satisfying to me because at the moment of death, the bar patrons noticed me. They knew exactly who death was.   
  
A truth enters my mind.  
  
I'm not hiding anything. What you see is what you get.   
  
I smirk.   
  
The lamps are ablaze in our bungalow. Angelus and Darla won't be happy with me. I've created a mess, and word travels fast in the city.   
  
So be it.  
  
My hand covers the latch, and I clear my throat, prepared to explain myself in the coarsest accent I can deliver. Dru'll love it.   
  
In anticipation of what's to come, my demon starts humming again.  
  
The end.  
  
What do you guys think? (Sorry if there are typos...unedited...)  



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